


Love never happened

by 7slash20



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 03:38:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7297924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7slash20/pseuds/7slash20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after Judgement Day; MacLeod gets Methos to save Joe's life</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love never happened

**Author's Note:**

> I found some old stories on my hard drive; maybe some of you have a s much fun as I had re-discovering them.  
> Be warned: I'm not a native speaker and the stories are not beta-ed. Read at own risk!  
> (Dimeth is the name I used for my Highlander stuff, just in case you wondered...)

Love never happened  
By Dimeth

_If I only had the words to tell you_  
_If you only had the time to understand_  
_Though I know it wouldn’t change your feelings_  
_And I know you’ll carry on the best you can._

_Billy Joel “If I only had the words” ___

 

They’d kill him. They’d find him guilty and shoot him at dawn.  
I knew the Watchers’ rules too well to fool myself about the outcome of his tribunal.  
MacLeod’s interference had been expected, yet it didn’t seem to help Joe.  
So, after pacing my hotel room for hours, I finally decided that it was Adam’s call to come into play. Maybe after all, my appearance or what Adam Pierson had to tell them would make the difference. And if it didn’t, at least I’d see Joe again.  
I wasn’t decided on who would take more comfort from that last look – him or me.  
Remorse had never been very high on my list of emotions.

I slipped into my Adam Pierson part, guising in mild manners and shy enthusiasm and stepped into their tribunal and out again a couple of minutes later, shoulders slumped. I wouldn’t change the outcome, but I’d made a difference. As I took my last look at him, I saw it in Joe’s eyes: I had made a difference to him.  
I wouldn’t stay and watch him die.

Instead, I drove back to Paris, haunted by his eyes, sad and knowing, cursed his stubbornness, his damn loyalty to the Watchers and their rules, cursed myself for letting it all happen in the first place.  
The moment we had met, when he’d walked stiffly into Don Salzer’s office and our eyes had made contact for the very first time, I had known it would be love. Maybe disguised as friendship, but nonetheless love.  
I hadn’t told him. For a lack of words of all things. With the simple lines all being taken, I didn’t want to make a fool of myself with stuttering and stammering.  
And now – at dawn- I would lose him and remorse would follow me around like my shadow.  
It was still dark outside and it had started to drizzle. The periodical squeal of the wipers in the silence set my teeth on edge and I switched on the radio. Billy Joel’s distinctive voice filled the car.

 _Well, it’s a rainy night in Paris,_  
_And I’m sitting by the Seine,_  
_It’s a pleasure to be soaking in the European rain,_  
_Now my belly’s full of fancy food and wine_  
_Oh but in the morning there’ll be hell to pay_  
_Somewhere along the line. ___

I switched off the radio with an angry grunt.

_Great, even Billy knows. ___

In Paris, I drove around aimlessly, through abandoned streets until I found myself in front of Le Blues Bar.  
It was locked – as could be expected at 4:25 in the morning. I had no key – but hey, a guy can acquire a lot of skills in 5000 years.  
I got one of the bottles of Joe’s special reserve of Scotch and two glasses as if he would join me soon, sat down at our usual table and poured me a generous shot. I would never forget his quiet humor, the way he looked when he played his guitar – not the regular performances with the band, but those lost-in-thought tunes after the bar was closed. The way his fingertips would caress the strings, while I’d be sitting in the shadows, watching him with burning eyes, feeling a hunger I wouldn’t quite define.

I raised my glass to the empty stage and drank slowly.  
Behind my back, the first shimmer of dawn crept up in the eastern sky.

I jerked awake at an Immortal presence.  
Reaching for my sword on instinct, I was stopped cold by a large hand exercising a death grip on my wrist.  
“MacLeod.”  
“Methos, damn you. Where have you been?” He was angry.  
I was puzzled, then - sad. The sun outside was already high in a pale Parisian sky.  
_I’d be over by now. ___  
I poured another shot. “May his soul rest in peace.” I murmured and downed the Scotch, grateful for its burning presence down my throat which provided an excellent excuse for my filling eyes.

MacLeod knocked the glass from my hand, sent it flying in a perfect arc, shattered into glistening pieces as it hit the floor.  
“Damn you, Methos.” He repeated. “Joe needs you and you hide in here…”  
“Joe is dead.” I said pointedly, trying for matter-of-fact in my voice.  
“No, he’s not. Come on, I’ll fill you in on the way.”

I couldn’t believe it. He was a fucking miracle. The most stubborn mortal I’d ever known was still alive.  
Barely alive, I reluctantly admitted.  
MacLeod had gathered any medical equipment he found reasonable for treating Joe’s wound.  
Sterile dressings, compresses, band aids –  
“An enema?” I asked, amusement tinting my voice despite Joe’s critical condition.  
He blushed, but didn’t reply.  
I scribbled a list of things I’d need, MacLeod left and I accessed the damage done.  
Joe’s skin was pale and clammy; he had taken two slugs to his upper left chest and –thanks to the six and a half hours trip from Lyon to Paris- had lost more blood than I liked.  
I undressed Joe and stripped off his prostheses, sat up two lamps next to the cot and when the water I had set up was finally boiling, MacLeod returned with a cardboard box.  
I scanned the contents, then dismissed him unceremoniously, mind already focussed on the task at hand: To save Joe. “Fine, MacLeod. Coffee’s upstairs. Help yourself.”  
I set up an IV.  
“Need help here?” He asked, and his anxiousness for Joe surfaced.  
“No. Thanks, but no thanks.”  
He put his large hand on Joe’s unharmed shoulder, squeezed gently and murmured: “Strength, my friend.”  
While I was washing the blood away – and it was enough to keep me busy for a while- Joe came to. Well, some.  
“Am I dead?” he whispered, lids fluttering in an effort to open his eyes.  
I put a gentle hand on his forehead. “No, Joe. You’re safe.”  
“Please, don’t… don’t take my legs…”  
I flinched. “You’re in Paris, Joe.”  
“M-Methos?”  
“Yes, Joe?”  
“Methos…” he sighed weakly and slipped back to unconsciousness.  
“It’s okay, Joe. I’ve got you now. Sleep.” I said in a low, reassuring voice, and stroked his face before I injected the narcotics into his vein.  
I slipped into sterile gloves, unpacked sterile scalpels, forceps and swaps. My medical training had taken place long before the invention of sterile equipment and firearms, but since then, I had seen and treated enough bullet wounds to know what to do.

About two hours later I sat back on my heels, knees and thighs hurting from the crouched position, neck muscles cramping in protest, eyes watering with exhaustion and relief.  
I’d done my best; now it was Joe’s term to fight for his life – or die.  
I covered him with a blanket and checked the IV and his pulse a last time before I lay down on the floor next to the cot and fell asleep almost instantly.

The following two days it was touch and go.  
MacLeod brought food I barely touched, and coffee I greedily downed.  
When Joe’s condition stabilized some on the third day, MacLeod vanished to try and find out what was happening in the Watchers.  
I cut down the amount of painkillers for Joe, waiting for him to come to.  
I’d decided sharing the cot with him; it’d provide more warmth in the damp cold of the wine cellar than just a blanket. Waking in the middle of the night, opening your eyes to darkness and find yourself alone is a frightening experience after all.

I was lying next to Joe in the darkness, listened to his breathing, easier now than it had been in the days and nights gone by, arguing with myself.  
_Who the hell would ever know? ___

I turned to my side and pulled him slowly, cautiously against me into a loose embrace. He made some soft noises at the movement, and braced himself with one hand against my chest. Silence fell again.

Joe’s hand started to move without warning; I felt his thick-skinned fingertips run slowly over my skin, to and fro, brushing a nipple incidentally, sending a jolt through my bowstring tight body. Homing in on it, he worried the small nub till it hardened. His head tilted up and his lips explored my face ever so slowly, whisking over my cheek, my nose, descending on my mouth.  
All everything but incidentally.  
His sensuous attack took me by surprise and before I could stifle the soft moan that rose in my throat it escaped my lips into his mouth.  
_Nobody’ll ever know… ___I told myself when I parted my lips and met a gently caressing tongue. The only sounds in the cellar the guttural noises of my pleasure.  
_“Don’t get involved!” ___Some part of my brain admonished with a scream. Hadn’t I just been given another lecture on how it felt to lose a mortal lover? On the pain of loss? On the emptiness afterwards?  
But this was way too sweet, too long desired to stop now.  
_Nobody’ll ever know… Not even him. ___  
I touched his face and felt his smile. My hand grabbed his, pulled it slowly away from my chest and I murmured against his lips: “Sleep, Joe. You need rest.”

_____Later, much later, when his hand had gone lax in mine, I got up and stared down at his sleeping form, at his relaxed features in the dimness._  
I knew nobody’d know, there wouldn’t be repeat performances, I wouldn’t get a chance to reciprocate.  
But he’d live. He’d still be part of my life, the part without memory, this night a blank spot, a love never happened.  
He’d survive, would start to bitch about the circumstances of his convalescence and would finally leave to mix in the war between Watchers and Immortals, would try to resolve it. 

___In the end, he wouldn’t remember what I’d never forget.  
_ _ _


End file.
